


Buttons and Hooks

by dancerinthedrink



Category: The Riot Club (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Conversations, Bi-Curiosity, Desperation, M/M, Neck Kissing, Nipple Licking, Not Beta Read, Oxford, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 09:30:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21177203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancerinthedrink/pseuds/dancerinthedrink
Summary: Milo and Hugo attempt to hold on to either side of an olive branch but only succeed in splitting it like a wishbone. Neither of them know who got the larger piece.





	Buttons and Hooks

**Author's Note:**

> I fudged with the canon timeline a wee bit to fit in all the necessary scenes.

“I am sick to fucking death of poor people!” Alistair cried. 

There were a few seconds of breath-holding silence before Harry burst out laughing, the first time that night he seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself since the call girl stormed out. One by one, the other club members joined in - self-conscious hidden giggles, impolite guffaws, smirks on the rim of a champagne glass - no one wanted to be the last person to show that he hadn't actually been swept up by Alistair’s monologue.

“Oh dear,” Harry said, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye, fighting back another round of lawless laughter, “I think someone’s had a little too much to drink.” 

Harry fought his way up from his chair and wove around the bits of shattered glass in accidental drunken grace to fetch Alistair down from where he stood, chest heaving, nose whistling, eyes skittering around the room.

“Come now, Alise. Isn’t it past your bedtime?” Arms outstretched, Harry looked rather like a father rescuing his son from the monkey bars. 

Alistair came down placidly off his soapbox, legs as wobbly as a baby horse. All the fiery energy purged from his body; his pulse was beating wildly in his cheek. Harry pulled Alistair’s arm over his shoulder, dragging him to the door. “Dmitri, call the cars, will you. And somebody get his coat,” he called back to the club.

The party, at that point, was unofficially over. Milo wasn’t sure if the president had to give another speech to wrap things up, bookend things, but James just gave Dmitri a nod and went about the busy work of fixing his hair in the reflection of the sylvan paintings that tattooed the walls of the private room. There was a puddle on the tablecloth, some badly paired white that Milo put his elbow in.

“Remind me to start watering down his wine next dinner,” Dmitri said while dialling. “If I have to put up with a rant every club dinner, I swear to god…. It’s like meeting the in-laws: no politics, religion or sports.”

“It’s not like Sebbers wasn’t the same way. Whenever you got enough Sauvignon blanc in him he would give sermons to put the Archbishop of Canterbury to shame. Expect he was rather on the opposite side of the spectrum,” said George. He had pulled a book from out of nowhere and was parsing through it slowly, a Joyce novella everybody had been forced to read in secondary school. 

“He would quote The Communist Manifesto. In perfect German,” said Toby. Milo got the feeling they were all talking to him. He squinted at Toby; the spinning lights from the overhead lamps hurt his eyes. Beside Milo, Ed was spooning the remains of someone’s parfait into his mouth; wet slurping sounds. Roast-flavored bile rose in the back of Milo’s throat.

“We were lucky his knowledge of German politics stayed firmly in the left. We could have got into real trouble if ever he strayed too far right,” Hugo said. He clapped Milo on the shoulder and leaned next to his cheek. Liquor-hot breath on his skin. Milo didn’t have the energy to recoil. “What do you say to some fresh air, old thing?”

“Fuck yes.”

The parking lot was empty, the moon watery behind a scrim of mist. Milo, although he had yet to sleep even a wink, felt his hangover coming on strong. Could see it approaching like a big game hunter on safari in the path of a leveled rhino horn. 

Milo sat on the kerb, his tailcoat spread over his shoulders, slipping off like clipped wings. A wan chill edged around him.

He wished he had been asleep, that tomorrow night would be the real Riot Club dinner, and tonight was a product of a restless REM cycle, and he was in bed with Lauren against his chest, one of her curls causing an itch so unbearable he’d wake her up with the sound of scratching. And they’d laugh and get breakfast. Lauren liked her coffee thoroughly diluted with milk, no sugar when made from a machine and Vanilla Bean Creme Frappuccinos when delivered by her housemate from a Starbucks run. 

Tears pooled at the corners of his eyes, and Milo quickly wiped them away. He would save them for the privacy of his room, for the pillow he once shared. 

Far away, Harry was cupping Alistair’s face in his hands, their foreheads together, administering a bizarre sobriety test. While Alistair looked confused, Harry kept shuddering with laughter every few seconds (like bloody clockwork), never releasing Alistair and continually drawing his attention back to him when it strayed down the road or over to Milo and Hugo. 

Despite what he knew of Alistair, an arrogant, whiney Tory who relied on nepotism to cut a path through the woods and spelled ‘travelled’ and ‘colour’ the American way, Milo felt envious of him tonight. At least his sponsor hadn’t tried to fuck him. Though, by the looks of it, Milo wouldn’t be surprised if Harry and Alistair ended the night in bed together. 

Not that Milo would prefer Harry as his sponsor, especially after the temper tantrum he threw after being denied a public blowjob. Hugo was so pleasant. Plenty of boys at Westminster had come from a good family and had hauteur bred through their bloodline, but Hugo was the only boy Milo knew whom charm came to as naturally as breathing. Even though Milo had forgotten his name, he was still anomalous enough to stick in his memory. A weird burst of joy had entered his chest when they met at the pub, and that joy had only filled out and grown brighter throughout the initiation process. Hugo was clever and charismatic and compassionate and a whole host of other C starting words.

To use one of his mother’s terms: Hugo was a delight to be around.

But there was one word that started with a C Milo considered Hugo. A word Lauren told him he wasn’t allowed to say anymore though she used it all the time to refer to the nasty girls from her secondary school and once used about her tutor when she got a fail on her essay on Trotsky’s assassination. 

Hugo was a First-Class Cunt. So obvious of him to get firsts in everything. Even now his suit was stainless, and the only hairs out of place fell like they were arranged by a professional stylist. The glimpse Milo caught of his own reflection in the gastropub windows was ghastly; he had been flipped inside out: his fucked-up insides matching the fucked-up outsides. He wanted to throw up.

It wasn’t that Milo was homophobic. His best mate growing up had come out as gay when they were fifteen, and he always made sure to support him: going with him to London Pride, celebrating the legalisation of same-sex marriage, playing wingman where he could. And he was pretty sure his little brother was gay. He was consistently mesmerized by pictures of Kit Harrington in his fluffy Westerosi coat on magazine covers, claiming he watched the show for the plot. Milo wasn’t the type of guy that would have his opinion changed if someone confided their sexual orientation to him. He loved his brother, and he loved his mate like a brother. He was cool, relaxed, confident enough in his own sexuality that he’d kissed even another bloke before as a joke.

As annoyed as he would have been if Hugo had acted temperamental and pissy and ignored him, he was even more annoyed by the fact that Hugo could play off rejection so easily, that he could still read Milo like a fucking book, that Milo went along with his suggestions, biting at his heels with the desperation of just whelped puppy. The back of his neck prickled but when he turned Hugo was chatting companionably with George. Cheeks flaming, he whipped his head back and watched the toes of his shoes nudge and kick the bits of loose gravel from the road.

He, in a weird way, missed Hugo. Though he was two metres away there was an irreplaceable sense of solidarity as the only two sane members of the Riot Club. He wanted to joke about Alistair’s outburst with him. He wanted to stand next to him.

When the cars arrived Milo didn’t have the strength to push in on another pair, have to explain to Ed or Guy about why he’d rather not spend an hour and a half with Hugo, inevitably opening himself up for ridicule. Besides, if Hugo had any sense he would be staying silent on the drive. 

Their chauffeur put on the radio, switching the station until he landed on one that worked this far out from the city, something privately owned which only seemed to play Celtic Woman. The window was cool but grew hot and uncomfortable with sweat from Milo’s forehead as he watched the endless line of trees dissolve into a green blur. He could have fallen asleep, but there were too many speed bumps left unfilled by a government that didn’t give a shit. 

Wind whipped around the backseat. Hugo had lit a cigarette and, in courtesy, opened his window, letting the night in, the smoke like an Aridane’s thread, leading whoever cared from the Minotaur back to the mouth of the labyrinth, where all the trouble began. 

At a certain point in their journey, the cars split from formation to drop the club members off at their rooms. Hugo climbed out but instead of striding off, he poked his head back in the car.

“Milo?” He said, making his voice bright and impersonal. “What do you say? One final drink to cap off the night?”

Because he couldn’t stand the thought of spending the day alone in his tiny room, breathing in Lauren’s cucumber and grapefruit shampoo, watching the sunrise filter through the dust on the succulent his mum bought him to brighten up the room, wallowing the Riot Club mess he had yet to fully clear out, he went. 

Hugo led him up the stairs of the residential building, brushing past other students, cardboard coffee cups clutched in their sweaty hands, spectacles worn when there was no one to impress with contact lenses, ironic bunny slippers whispering on the antique wood. 

His room was frighteningly ordinary. Milo really didn’t know what he expected. A grand piano perhaps, lit with tens of candles, with a butler offering up schooners of spirits at the entrance. Something like the room he had first introduced the option of membership to Milo. Something fit for a man who had the money to spend the rest of his life embroiled in academia. Instead the room was a typical square foot of student life. Movie posters on the wall, Zeffirelli’s _Romeo and Juliet_ and _Salo or the 120 Days of Sodom_; library books bookmarked with receipts; teacups bleeding rings on IKEA wood. There was a photograph on the nightstand of him with his parents in front of some Spanish ruins, his skin tawny in the Iberian sunshine. 

It was neat, the bed still made from yesterday’s morning. The morning light issuing from behind the gauzy curtains bathed the room in a dreamy, scuba diving atmosphere. Nothing was quite real. A faerie realm where the furniture was made of mist and the people were dragonflies in cream-colored disguises.

Milo caught a glimpse of the two of them in a mirror and nearly laughed out loud. They looked absurd in their penguin tails and stiff white collars, drunkards out of time. A washing machine thumped somewhere.

“I don’t have much in the way of vintage, but I did buy a few cans a while ago that must have fermented in neglect.” The door of a mini-fridge opened with a pop, and Hugo retrieved a pair of Guinness cans from the plastic necklace that asphyxiated them. He snapped the tabs open, and the beer hissed and burbled. 

The can’s tin skin raised gooseflesh on Milo’s arm, but he drank anyway, the booze already staving off the pain of his headache. The bed squeaked minutely when he sat on it. Hugo leaned against the wall, peeking out to the brightening lawn.

“I’m surprised-” Milo sneezed. “I’m surprised you don’t live off-campus.” His voice was muffled under his sleeve as he absently wiped his nose on the nice fabric.

“Easier to get to classes. If I had to pay rent I’d probably need a flatmate, and I prefer living alone too much. The trauma of being an only child.”

“I thought you had an older sister. Didn’t she come when you played Oedipus?” A Grant’s T-shirt, powder blue under maroon lettering, was tacked up on the wall. They had been in different houses at Westminster, theatre being the few times they ever crossed paths, Hugo quoting Latin until even the girls in sixth and seventh form rolled their eyes.

“My aunt. My mother’s half-sister. Younger by fourteen years. You were in that production weren’t you?”

“In the chorus, yeah.” 

Small talk. Milo toed off his shoes, rubbed the condensation off his beer. He made himself a promise: once he was finished with his drink, he’d leave. As he was taking another balancing sip an obtrusive knock sounded at the opposite side of the door. Hugo was there in a flash as if he had teleported and opened the door a slice.

“What is it, Simon?”

A rather short man in pajama sweats wearing a permanent squint stood in the hall holding a thick sheaf of papers in his arms. “It won’t take long. I’ve got an essay about Seneca due for Walters only I can’t remember which one. You wouldn’t happen have the notes from last September, would you?”

Hugo stole a look back to Milo who was trying to make himself as small as possible, his eyes inconspicuously on the floor. “Can’t this wait?” 

“Uh, actually, it can’t,” Simon said, extending on his toes, trying to busybody his way around Hugo to see into the room. “It’s due on Tuesday, and it’s not the only thing I’ve got to do, so unless you want me to get sent down for failing half of my classes you’ll give me notes.”

“This is really not a good time. Do you know how long it would take to look back that far? I’ve been out all night, and I’m tired. I don’t have the energy right now.”

“That’s fine; I’ll look through them myself.” With his elbow buttressed by textbooks, Simon muscled his way into the room. A fine sheen of sweat worked itself on his forehead from the struggle. “Your room is always so much cleaner than mine; I don’t know how you find anything-- Oh.” He caught sight of Milo. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d had company.” Simon’s face turned the same mealy pink as the uncooked center of a steak.

“We’re not--” Milo said, hurriedly. He jumped up from the bed, and a shot of beer leapt from the can and onto the leg of his trousers. “Fuck!” 

He tried, uselessly, to brush the stain away as the alcohol soaked into the fabric and wet the hairs on his leg. Looking up to see what social havoc he managed to wreak, he found that Simon was gone, and Hugo was sliding a thin latch across the seam of the door.

“God. These are-- I mean-- I don’t have to-- Are these machine-safe?” The price to clean something bespoke must exorbitant. All Milo had was a bottle of Tide and a handful of pence. 

“Not unless you plan on shrinking with them. They’re Spanish wool.” Hugo leaned his back against the door, arms and ankles crossed, the very picture of nonchalance.

“Fuck.” 

“But don’t worry,” Hugo said quickly. “We have a treasury to make up the difference for damage sustained to club materials. You won’t have to pay for anything.”

“A treasury? Where’d you get the money for that? Bake sales and coupon raffles?”

Hugo smiled. “Alumni donations mostly. We can replace those for the next dinner. It’d be no trouble. Harry usually has a fitting every month depending on whether his fencing season is keeping him fit.”

“That’s not a problem for you, I imagine. Being fit.” To his surprise, Milo was cheering up. It might have been the hair of the dog. The trousers were dead in the water, a lovely stain blacker than black had settled itself quite comfortably inches above his knee.

The smile disappeared from Hugo’s lips as he strode across the room to a set of drawers.

“You can borrow something if you like,” he said. His gaze was fixated on the stacks of folded trousers, fingering the hems.

Sour distress burned in Milo’s stomach. He’d only been trying to banter, using the same casual air they used before. Things didn’t have to change if they didn’t let them, but Milo guessed he would have to let them. He crooked a finger around his collar and tugged sheepishly.

“Could I have a shirt too? It would look weird, sort of, to be wearing, like, mismatched-”

“Sure,” said Hugo, curt.

“Would you help me?” Hugo looked up. “With my clothes? It’s just that I had someone to help put them on, and I’m not really sure how to do it myself, and you’ve had more experience than I have.”

“You want that?”

“I do.”

Hugo undressed him. He was brusque about it. Played less like a seduction than a surly valet. The buttons of his shirt and vest were unfastened and the bits of loose fabric were left hanging for Milo to pull off himself. 

He was on his knees, eye level with Milo’s cock, and Milo had the thought that if he had accepted the advance at the gastropub Hugo would be in the same position: an anxious, naughty blowjob on the bathroom floor, cleaning each other off with brown paper towels and brackish tap water after Milo came on Hugo’s lips. 

Hugo had very pretty lips, objectively speaking.

If they were caught - in the gastropub, fucking (fucking in the gastropub hallway, grout and dust on tile under Hugo’s knees, the pipes hiccuping when the kitchen ran the garbage disposal, tight throat, throaty groans, hushed debauchery on the other side) - would they be kicked out? The club members were casually flippant towards Hugo being gay; they didn’t seem to be bothered by him at all, but if they were confronted with an overt exhibition of sexuality, they might be spooked out of their friendship. And Milo would be alone. All his friends were more Lauren’s friends. The club was the only group of people he could imagine spending the next three years with at parties, through exams, in fluorescently-lit pizza joints, drunk off their asses. 

When he was just in his pants, Milo sat back on the bed, feeling the cool wall on his back. He watched Hugo watching him. He swigged his beer. 

“You can take your clothes off too. If you want.”

“I wasn’t waiting for your permission.” 

He turned sideways to doff his suit. He was slower than when he worked on Milo, waiting for Milo to change his mind, tell him he doesn’t feel comfortable. That broke Milo’s heart. He wanted them to be on equal footing, maybe even for Hugo to be the way he was before, older and wiser, the curator to a collection of smashed yet preserved artifacts. He emerged from the suit like a satin moth breaking out of his cocoon. His underwear was navy blue and clung to the curve of his arse.

“Do you want to sit next to me?”

“Not if you’re going to punch me in the face when I do. Again.”

“I won’t. I wouldn’t.”

Cautiously, taking up his undrunk beer (a golden lyre on a sable field), Hugo took the place next to Milo on the small bed. A bed built for nameless, hurried encounters and quick pleasure. His shoulder bumped Milo’s, the lean musculature of a swimmer or an acrobat flexed in the cordiality of a wince. The weak sunlight twined through the gossamer hairs on his throat as his Adam’s apple stooped and rolled with every swallow of beer.

For a while, while the morning slunk up their bodies like water in a sinking boat, they ruminated. They were going to talk about it, inevitably. But they would talk around it in the Chekovian manner. They might never had addressed again in their entire lives if Milo hadn’t gone too far over the line, committing the same sin of flirting, then asking Hugo to take his clothes off. Viewed without context or stage direction, his words sounded very much lustful.

“You are unfairly attractive, you know.”

Milo started, a drop of beer loosened from the can and fell cold on his stomach. Hugo grabbed his arm at the elbow, preventing him from jumping up.

“That’s not a come on. It’s just a fact.” He sounded pained, and Milo relaxed back on the bed, feeling ashamed. He wiped the drop from his stomach and could feel Hugo’s eyes on him, as sentient and intelligent as an owl’s. “Even when we were in school I noticed you. Surrounded on all sides like you were fresh roadkill and everyone else was flies. You could make friends with anybody. Townies, posh boys, the day girls. I would have disliked you if I hadn’t thought you were so very sweet.”

“I’m sweet?” Milo had never been called something so, well, feminine before. Teachers and parents used to clap him on the shoulder and call him a nice boy, a good boy, but sweet was reserved for blonde girls who put worms back in the grass after a rainstorm, girls with hair ribbons who brought in cupcakes for their birthdays, girls with freckles and close-lipped smiles because they were too afraid to show the gaps in their teeth. 

“You’re kind. You’re decent, and you’re sweet. There’s a lot of people who can’t even match decency at the minimum rate. Your looks don’t hurt either. I wouldn’t have-- I know I wouldn’t have spoken to you if you hadn’t aged gracefully. I might have said hello, but I never would have invited to a drink nor sponsored you for the club if I hadn’t been attracted to you.” 

Abruptly, Hugo remembered himself and took his hand from Milo’s arm, the pressure and sweat acting as an adhesive so their skin protested the separation minutely. The handprint seemed to glow with blue thermal heat.

“I hope you don’t find that insulting.”

“Kind of flattering actually.”

Hugo rolled his eyes. “You are just so progressive, aren’t you? ‘No, I am not attracted to you, but I enjoy the fact you are attracted to me’. Bollix. I don’t exist to make you feel better about yourself.” 

Milo was silent, staring contemplatively at the triangle of duvet between his thighs. There was nothing deflective about what Milo meant. He had been used to being flirted with by guys when he went with his mate to gay clubs and even (unconsciously, he told himself) dressed up for the occasion, teasing a higher caliber of attention: hotter, longer, closer. Admittedly, it was a cheap boost to his self-confidence: to be checked out without the obligation to go home with somebody at the end of the night, to think he transcended gendered attraction.

“But it was you, yourself, that I grew to like. It’s like I said: you’re sweet. It’s easy to be around you, to be your friend.”

“But you didn’t want to be my friend. Not really.”

“Obviously not.”

“You wanted to-” Milo was heavily uncomfortable; the presence by his side was oppressive- “have sex with me. You would have right there right then if I let you. You still would.”

“What’s your point?” Hugo asked through gritted teeth. There was no denial in his voice, just begrudging continuance. He was looking at the Grant’s shirt, better days, when Oxford was something to look forward to.

Milo took Hugo’s wrist, his hand went willingly from where it had encircled his drink, and laid his palm flat on his ribs. Reflective chills stirred across their skin.

He was immeasurably lonely. His relationship with the club was shot. After what they did to Lauren, what they wanted her to do to them, Milo would never be able to forgive them. Lauren too, she would pass him in the dining hall and her spine would stiffen and she’d be afraid and disgusted and one day would confide the evening in a real boyfriend. 

“Milo,” Hugo said, guarded. His hand didn’t move from where it had been placed, but there was a nearly imperceptible tremour in his bones. Milo took the can from Hugo and put it on the nightstand then guided the newly freed hand to the other side of his waist.

He would have fucked Lauren if the night had gone to plan. Buried his face between her breasts, his dick inside her pussy, laughing and drunk and kissing her naked body triumphantly. 

Hugo’s hands were bigger than Lauren’s but just as soft, maybe even softer.

“If you still want to-” He patted the exposed length of his neck like he was coaxing a cat to jump up on his lap. 

Hesitant at first, Hugo met Milo’s eyes, moving up his body until his knees were planted on either side of Milo’s thigh and his chin bumped against his collarbone. Milo looked away, looked at the desk lamp with the off-white lampshade, nearly quaking with anticipation. Hugo’s eyes were blue as beryl, lucent and summery.

Hugo’s lips were soft against his neck: unpursed, hovering over, just barely brushing the skin, heedful of the very real possibility of repeat rejection. But Milo stayed placid, passively encouraging.

It would be hard to categorise such an action as a kiss until Hugo advanced higher, applying his lips under the edge of Milo’s jaw. 

Milo pretended not to notice that, as Hugo settled across his thigh, he could feel his erection rest hard on his hip bone, grinding obliviously. Tight exhales skirted past Milo’s ear, warm as the space between legs. 

Emboldened by Milo’s peace, Hugo kissed him harder, lingering, smacking kisses that were loud so close to their ears, but quiet in the grand scheme of things. Parting his lips and letting his nimble tongue run over the taut sinew he had free reign over, he licked long, savouring strips up the flank of Milo’s neck

At the first touch of his tongue - wet and unexpected, exploratory - an unbidden sigh rose from Milo’s throat. He squeezed his eyes shut. It felt so good to be wanted. To not have to do anything but be himself, exclusively and purely. 

When Hugo heard, he paused for an instant that went unnoticed by either of them and when he resumed he did so wholeheartedly. He moved his hands up, rubbing circles on the flesh below Milo’s nipples, teasing gently until they were stiff, the blunt tips of his fingernails scraping hints against the velour skin of areola. His thumbs flattened over his nipples as he kissed down to Milo’s collarbone which sharpened and dulled with every breath.

Milo though they were carrying on in a terribly Oxonian tradition. A tradition calcified by lonely scholars gorged on too many of the obscure classics. Milo could easily imagine Hugo slipping off his knickers to wank off between his thighs, the come-wet erection tugging against the soft pale flesh of Milo’s inseam. Something hot pulsed at the top of his ass.

The spit on Milo’s neck dried cold, and he found he longed for the warmth of Hugo’s open mouth, for the slimy sensation of his tongue skimming his throat. A dizzying pleasure jerked in his cock, and he thrust his hips forward to meet the presence of Hugo’s thigh. Milo tried to quell the moan that quivered at the base of his throat, but Hugo felt it under his lips and coaxed him through, undulating his thumbs until his moan joined the soft wet sounds of Hugo’s mouth.

Milo wasn’t close to coming, but Hugo was a naked circuit and with every touch he electrified Milo’s body. Each exhale, deep and long, pushed him towards an edge he never thought he’d reach with such simple attentions lavished on him. 

Hugo, after traveling the Grand Tour to the other side of Milo’s neck, opened and closed his mouth on Milo’s jugular, sucking with a force that was sure to leave a bruise as conspicuous as a port-wine stain. 

Milo had the distinct sense he was being tasted, sampled, drawn into a sort of vampiric hypnosis and wondered if he should push Hugo away, then Hugo shifted upwards and rubbed his knee against his cock, and any doubts faded away.

His eyes opened and looked at the train of Hugo’s back, at the knots flexing across his shoulders as he ground his cock on Milo’s thigh. Milo thought about tensing his leg but on the attempt, found he didn’t have the strength to. 

He enjoyed the view of Hugo’s ass and felt the urge to bring his hand and slip it underneath Hugo’s waistband and squeeze and goad him on. He watched his hand creep up the back of Hugo’s thigh, displacing the black hairs on his leg, slowly higher and higher but when he reached his waist, Hugo did something unfair with his tongue, and Milo’s hand flew to clutch the back of his head.

“God,” Milo said breathlessly.

Teeth filed down his chest, alternating with lips until Hugo reached Milo’s nipple and lapped at it gently. Milo’s nipple rose to meet his mouth. He pushed Hugo’s head hard against his chest so there was little room for Hugo to thumb and tweak his other nipple which grew red under the gentle abuse.

At points in his youth, Milo had reached under his shirt and stroked his nipples (his fingers sweaty, his dick in his hand) but the sensation had felt strange, and he’d quit straight away, cheeks enflamed. It was almost embarrassing how easily he came apart under Hugo’s lips, that his cock was straining in his boxers and going wild with every brush by the bones of Hugo’s knee.

They found their own rhythm, hips working to wring as much pleasure from each other as modesty would let them. There was too much between them for their fear to be flung away. 

Hugo let his other nipple go and slid his hand lower until it slipped past the waistband of Milo’s boxers. His hand curled around his erection and with three perfunctory strokes - soundless pants warming Hugo’s ear - Milo came over his fist.

Hugo pried Milo’s hand away gently. Before he moved off of Milo he grabbed his can from the nightstand and had finished it by the time he sat on the bed. 

Milo turned his head, recovering and weak, and looked at the mussed russet hair and red cheeks Hugo wore. The tip of his cock jutted from the waistband of his pants, the slit leaking onto his hip.

“Do you want me to…” He gestured awkwardly. He was too aware he was using the hand that had held Hugo to his chest. The idea of wanking Hugo off, of crowding him against the wall, of feeling the heft of his cock in his palm. Milo’s body heated up.

“Don’t worry about it.” Hugo adjusted himself. In his haste the semen on his hand dropped on the head of his cock; he didn’t seem to notice, but Milo did and got the sense of indirect sex and stood up immediately. Hugo followed his lead and collected a sweater and a pair of jeans and pushed them into Milo’s arms. “There’s a bathroom down the hall if you want to clean yourself up. And you can use this-” He took a robe off a hook on the wall and threw it on the pile of clothes. “I’ll get your suit washed and delivered.”

“Thanks,” Milo said. He put the robe on and knotted the belt around his waist. It was a tight fit; Milo was a little bigger than Hugo. He tried to catch his eye. “I’ll see you later?”

“The next meeting’s the fifth. Dinner on Halloween. Better start thinking of a costume.” Hugo was already pulling on pajama pants, but his hard dick still stood out against the fly. 

The sight stayed burned into Milo’s mind as he dressed in the bathroom stall. For a second he was afraid the jeans wouldn’t fit. He wanted to return the robe so he could see Hugo one more time but as he was leaving the bathroom he bumped into Simon.

“Oh,” said Simon. “Um, good morning?”

His cheeks were racked with blushes.

Milo brushed past him, reeling with embarrassment. He raced from the building, already morning was in full bloom around him, and the students he passed were more alert than the spirits that had drifted up and down the staircase. By luck he managed to find an acquaintance, a bloke he knew from an extramural rugby team that lived five doors down in his building, and fabricated a story about insomnia and exercise and walked with him back to their rooms. 

Once he was inside, with a chair barricading the door, Milo felt safe enough to fall on his bed, hiding his eyes against the sun. If he fell asleep, he would fuck up his sleep cycle and would be plagued with visions of the dinner, Lauren’s crumpled brow. Deciding to make the most of his time he took up his pen; he had yet to start this week’s tutorial essay, and he had no excuse for having anything worse than Alistair’s. It was about Mrs Thatcher, and he intended to enjoy rending her policies.

On his desk there were piles of ruled paper crammed with his sloppy longhand (calling it ‘cursive’ always seemed too girlish), essays not notes, that he had to handwrite ever since his laptop was cracked in half like the club members were playing around with it and thought it was a fancy and expensive Microsoft computer. He would work in the library, type it all out when he was done but for the first drafts he liked to be able to blast his music - Electric Light Orchestra, Lorde, Johnny Cash - without some sharp-eared neighbour getting him reprimanded by a librarian. His right hand was riddled with carpal tunnel. 

He clicked open his pen and began, _In the history of labour unions, no act taken has been as egregious as Hugo’s_

He scribbled out Hugo’s name and rewrote _Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher_, feeling satisfied he caught the mistake. After he completed the opening sentence he sat in silence racking his brain for what to say next. It wasn’t until he had gotten a fresh sheet of paper and written _Hugo Fraser-Tyrwhitt_ out in longhand, calligraphying it the best he could that he felt a weight off his chest. The name didn’t look as elegant as it should have in his handwriting, but Milo turned away from it satisfied.


End file.
